


In the Meadows of France

by INMH



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Butterflies, Cute, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:12:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a prompt on the Les Miserables kink meme. Combeferre accompanies Prouvaire to the countryside for a day to take in nature. Alternately: I took a sweet, fluffy prompt and made it dirty <strike>and I am not even a little sorry</strike>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Meadows of France

**Author's Note:**

> [Link to the Les Miserables Kink Meme on LJ.](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/9761.html#comments)

It was a day-trip, a rare sojourn out of the city and into the countryside.

"Not that I'm averse to leaving Paris for a day," Combeferre remarked, "but if you already have a book that details various butterflies, why do you need to go out and catch them as well?"

"Reading about a butterfly's beauty from someone else's words or an artist's sketches isn't the same as seeing a _real_ butterfly." Prouvaire said. "I have my own interpretations of nature's beauty and prefer to experience it first-hand when I can."

"Do you intend to collect them, like those bug collectors with their glass cases and-" Combeferre stopped when he saw the half-scandalized, half-horrified look on Prouvaire's face and assumed that the answer was no.

It was May, and a beautiful day: It had rain the night previously, but today the sky was blue, the clouds white and puffy and large enough to lessen the sun's heat every now and then, and a pleasant breeze stirred the grass and trees. It was the kind of day that Prouvaire might write about in some of his happier poems.

The place they found was a mile or two outside of Paris, an area that was not quite a field because it had plenty of trees, but for the same reason could not quite be called a forest. Combeferre suspected that Prouvaire had called his attention to this spot because there was also a wealth of varying flowers to be found, which would unquestionably attract the kinds of butterflies Prouvaire was looking for.

The younger man's excitement was palpable. "Look! I can see some already. Have you ever tried to catch butterflies before, Combeferre?"

Combeferre fingered the handle of the net in his hand and shook his head. "I can't say that I have."

"It's fun! Just mind that you don't bring the net down too hard: Their wings are delicate, and if damaged, it will leave them unable to fly and likely die." He set down the basket containing the lunch they would have later on and took up his own net.

They spent the next half-hour stalking unsuspecting butterflies and trapping them in the nets for further study. When one's wings would flutter in a way that suggested fear or panic, Prouvaire could be heard gently assuring it that it was in no danger, that he only wanted a look and would be done with it soon enough. Combeferre seriously doubted that the butterfly understood even a tenth of what the poet was saying, but his empathy was touching.

Prouvaire's almost childlike enthusiasm for the project was enchanting, and he found himself drawn further into the activity than he expected he would be. Of course, Combeferre was pleased with Prouvaire's company alone; he harbored quite a bit of affection for the younger man, their personalities not too dissimilar from one another. Seeing him happy was a pleasure in and of itself.

Examining a certain butterfly fluttering about in the net, Combeferre brought his catch over to Prouvaire and held it up for examination. "Any idea what this is?" The poet's eyes lit up.

"It's…" Prouvaire set his net down, opened the book he had brought with them and thumbed through it. "…' _Leptotes pirithous'_. I think- You see? An artist's rendition isn't always precise enough. There are tiny, subtle differences between some butterflies; else you would think they were the same thing." He stood right next to Combeferre and held up the book so that the older student could see the sketch, pressing against his arm in the process.

The highlights of the morning consisted of an amusing moment in which Combeferre, while raising the net, accidentally caught a low-flying sparrow. In the process of attempting to free it from the net, the poor thing was so frightened that it scratched Prouvaire's cheek as he attempted to set it loose. It ended with the poet regretfully pulling out his pocketknife and slicing the netting so that the bird could pull itself out. "Shoo! Go on! You're free!"

After a bit more hopping and squirming, the bird worked itself free and, after stumbling a bit, flew off. Prouvaire frowned, rubbing the scratch on his face and sighing when his fingers came away with a small smudge of blood. Combeferre pulled out his handkerchief from his pocket and carefully dabbed at the cut, one hand going to Prouvaire's shoulder to steady him. "Does it hurt?"

"Stings, more like it." There wasn't much blood, and so after a minute Combeferre tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket and smiled.

"It's not that bad." He assured.

"Mm, but this is." Prouvaire picked up the ruined net and examined the damage. "Would you like to use mine?"

"No, no, that's all right. It's nearly time for lunch, anyway: I'll set it up." Combeferre wandered back to the spot where they had left the basket and began to unpack the food. Every now and then, he would look up and smile as he observed Prouvaire slowly stalking a butterfly, going about his hunt with an intensity only the likes of Prouvaire could manage in a moment like this.

He watched as the younger man hesitated, then swept the net forward in a fast (but careful) arc, catching something on the bush he had been aiming for. With a grin that made Combeferre's heart warm, Prouvaire carefully trapped the butterfly in the net and pinched the bottom so that it couldn't escape. He then set the net on the ground, trapping the creature between net and grass.

"Oh- Combeferre! Come look!" Combeferre stood and made his way over to the other man. Prouvaire was crouching with his back to his friend, and so Combeferre knelt down behind him and looked over his shoulder. Prouvaire glanced back and did a slight double-take when he saw how close he was, but then smiled brightly and gestured to the net. " _Callophrys rubi_. Isn't it lovely?"

Indeed: When it folded its wings up, it revealed a shiny, bright-green surface that looked as though it had been dusted with gold; Combeferre was no poet, but even he felt he could spin a few verses about this natural beauty. However, when its wings opened, they were a dark, dull brown with only a hint of that gold sprinkling. It was likely meant to serve as camouflage, given how easily it might have gotten lost against the trunk of a tree.

"It's not quite as impressive when its wings are open."

"Hush! That's unkind of you, Combeferre." Combeferre smiled broadly, but didn't laugh. As absurd as it was to think that he might harm the feelings of a butterfly, Prouvaire's concern for it nevertheless was touching. The younger man did not have an unkind bone in his body.

"Well," Combeferre said, snaking an arm around Prouvaire's waist and tugging him a bit. "finish up your interpretation of its beauty and come along. I've set out lunch."

Prouvaire seemed to be a little reluctant to let the butterfly go, as lovely as it was. But after a moment, he delicately untangled it from the net and set it loose. It almost immediately returned to the bush Prouvaire had snatched it from, as though the incident hadn't occurred at all.

Prouvaire joined Combeferre on the blanket and picked up the apple that had been left for him. He was bright-eyed and lively, and it was a sight to behold. Combeferre plucked at the crust of the bread slice he was holding.

"So what exactly do you intend to do with these observations, Jehan?"

"Possibly poetry," Prouvaire said, peeling away a bit of skin from the apple. "or maybe I'll just meditate on it when I need a reminder that the world is still lovely, for all of its ills."

"For when our sacrifice for the revolution may cause us to wonder what it is we fight for?"

"Precisely." Prouvaire's smile was radiant, and there was no question what Combeferre intended to fight for.

They talked and ate for a while, Prouvaire going over the other kinds of butterflies native to the area and pointing them out in his book, careful to keep his apple away from the pages lest juice drip onto them. His fixation with nature was evident, and Prouvaire's talent for words drove him to describe it in ways that were almost lyrical in quality. When one heard him speak of something he was passionate about, it was obvious that he was a poet.

Amidst their talk, Prouvaire seemed to take a larger bite of his apple than he had intended; he made a muffled noise and spluttered a bit, pushing the book away as a precaution as he struggled to swallow what he'd bitten off. " _Kff-_ Oops-"

"Are you all right?"

Prouvaire's eyes watered, and then he swallowed and coughed. A trail of juice crept from mouth, and though he tried to wipe it away, some still clung to his skin. "I'm fine, don't worry." And then, another smile.

In that moment, Combeferre took a chance: He leaned forward and kissed the corner of Prouvaire's mouth, lightly sucking the remaining juice from his lip. Prouvaire let out a little gasp, but it was quickly followed by a soft, delighted laugh and a hand coming up to grasp the back of Combeferre's neck. He smiled against the poet's lips. "Nothing could possibly bother you today, could it Jehan?"

Prouvaire's smile had a wickedness to it that Combeferre adored. "No." He turned and kissed the older man fully, and for a time they sat together like that. It was Combeferre's hands that tentatively wandered first, going from ribs to hips to thighs, where his thumbs rubbed slow circles on the insides and made Prouvaire moan into his mouth.

Combeferre gently pulled away, but kept his hands where they were. "What would you like from me, Jehan? There's little I'd refuse you right now."

Prouvaire straightened up and leaned further into Combeferre's ministrations. "As mad as it sounds, I'd like very much for you to strip me down and have me right here and now." Combeferre burst into laughter at that, and Prouvaire's grinned as his cheeks reddened slightly. "You were right, my friend: Nothing can bother me today."

"Evidently not." Combeferre's hands slid around to cup the younger man's behind. "And I still won't refuse you."

The process of shedding their clothing was a slow one, largely because neither one was able to keep his hands off of the other for too long a time. Combeferre leaned back on the blanket and took Prouvaire down to sit atop him; the former only had his shirt left, and the latter was down to his pants. Combeferre's hands roamed over Prouvaire's chest, kneaded his stomach, then came to the crux of his thighs and massaged the bulge that was present there.

Prouvaire whined softly and pressed into his hand. "Combeferre, Combeferre." He whimpered, before reluctantly sidling backwards so that he was straddling Combeferre's shins. He settled in as comfortably as he could, and then took the medical student into hand. He started to bring his head down, and it was suddenly very obvious what he meant to do-

"Jean Prouvaire, where and how did you learn about such things?" But Combeferre's voice had a playful edge the accusation. Prouvaire's blush was deep, and fairly typical of him; but rather than offering up an actual answer he instead gave Combeferre's cock a gentle squeeze with one hand, the other going down and pressing at his testicles. Combeferre shuddered.

"That, I think, is a conversation for another time." Prouvaire said, but his cheeks were still glowing when he bent down and began to lick and kiss Combeferre's length, lightly tracing the veins with his tongue. Combeferre sucked in a deep breath before reaching down and threading his hands into the poet's hair. It was difficult not to tug, especially as Prouvaire took him in and out of his mouth without ever really taking him in deep; tantalizingly, maddeningly close, but not there.

"Jehan, _God_ -" Combeferre's eyes rolled shut, and he tried to even his breathing and relax, but not so much that he would lose control before the best part.

Prouvaire pulled off, panting. "Yes?"

"Yes." Combeferre agreed before tugging him forward for another kiss, another few minutes of being connected at the mouth in an intimate embrace. After a few minutes, still entwined together, Combeferre rolled them over so that he was sitting astride Prouvaire's legs and began to awkwardly undo the young poet's trousers. Once done, he lifted his own shirt up and over his head and tossed it to the side.

Then another kiss, one to distract Prouvaire from the invasion below, where Combeferre's fingers were probing gradually, carefully, lovingly to loosen him. Prouvaire's moans were mixed with sighs, and he often drew back from the kiss to breathe properly, eyes shut and both hands clasped around Combeferre's neck. He mumbled incoherent things and clung to his partner in a way that spoke of trust and love, something Combeferre was so desperate to return.

Content that he was sufficiently prepared, the older man withdrew his hand and used it to take Prouvaire's leg and hook it around his waist. "Are you ready?"

Prouvaire's nod was eager, cheeks pink and eyes bright with anticipation. "Yes, yes. Go on." He hooked his other leg around Combeferre's waist and settled himself against the blanket.

Yet another kiss, another distraction, with Combeferre cupping Prouvaire's cheek in one hand and guiding himself into the younger man with the other. Prouvaire's groan was high and loud, and his body trembled as he took Combeferre deeper and deeper, hands moving from his neck to his shoulders and letting his nails into the medical student's back-

Once he was in all of the way, Combeferre shut his eyes, took a moment to adjust to the sensation of being enveloped, and uttered a soft moan between his teeth. "Jehan," He croaked. "You're all right?" Prouvaire nodded wordlessly, and so Combeferre took that as his cue to continue.

As he began to move, he saw that Prouvaire was more than all right: The look on his face indicated an ecstasy that made him even more beautiful than he already was. As he threw his head back with a stuttered mewl, Combeferre leaned down to plant kisses on the exposed flesh.

"Please, Combeferre, please, please, _please_." Prouvaire begged, each plea punctuated by a thrust.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," Combeferre groaned, each response punctuated with a kiss to Prouvaire's collarbone. "yes, yes, anything, anything, anything for you."

The frantic roll of Prouvaire's hips to meet Combeferre started to become erratic, his desperate writhing more pronounced; Combeferre thrusts became faster, harder, and he panted into the other man's neck until something inside of him erupted, and the world went bright and oh so beautiful.

Somewhere amidst that wonderful moment of bliss, Combeferre heard Prouvaire let out a surprisingly loud call of his own, fingers digging hard enough into Combeferre's skin that he thought he might be bleeding a little. After a moment to compose himself, he carefully withdrew from the poet and lay down beside him on the blanket. Combeferre let his head rest on Prouvaire's shoulder, and for a time they were silent.

Prouvaire was the first to speak, though he still sounded breathless. "I was loud."

Combeferre smiled into his shoulder. "Yes, yes you were."

"I really hope no one heard." The younger man lifted his head and nervously glanced around.

"I think we're far enough removed from the main road and any residences that no one would have heard or seen." Combeferre reasoned. But then his eyes widened slightly. "At least, I hope."

There was a long pause, and then they both burst out laughing.

"We should have checked before we did anything!" Prouvaire giggled, quickly reaching for his shirt as though he expected someone to come bursting out from behind a tree. "Oh God, what if someone _has_ heard us? I expect we could go to prison for this, or at least end up-"

"Shh, shh, look-" Combeferre gently inclined his head to a point somewhere behind Prouvaire's head, and when the student looked around, he saw a butterfly perched on a flower in the grass not four feet away.

"Oh." Prouvaire slowly rolled onto his stomach so that he could better see it. As the butterfly crawled it kept its wings closed- they were a gray-white color with black spots in a neat, curving pattern along either section of the wing. But then, when it finally stopped moving, it opened its wings and revealed a vibrant dark blue color, the outer edges of the wings rimmed with black. "It's spectacular! Look at the color- no sketch could hope to capture that!"

Combeferre smiled and rolled onto his stomach as well, wrapping an arm around Prouvaire's waist and listening as he began to dissect every bit of beauty the butterfly possessed.

It was a very good day.

-End

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I know the butterflies I mentioned here can be found in France (and were given their scientific classifications before 1832), but I don't necessarily know if they can be found in or around Paris. If that's not the case, please forgive my research fail.
> 
> Note 2: The last butterfly doesn't get named, but I was describing a _Glaucopsyche melanops_ (Black-Eyed Blue Butterfly).


End file.
